


From The Hips

by trepidatingboarfetus



Category: Grand Theft Auto Series (Video Games), Grand Theft Auto V
Genre: I Will Go Down With This Ship, Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Torture, Light BDSM, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts, What Have I Done
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-14
Updated: 2020-10-14
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:53:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27003841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trepidatingboarfetus/pseuds/trepidatingboarfetus
Summary: Is sex better than dealing with the emotions it brings?
Relationships: Michael De Santa/Trevor Philips
Comments: 9
Kudos: 37





	From The Hips

**Author's Note:**

> I heard this song on my playlist -- fuck you, YouTube playlists -- and had to write this. It screamed Trevor. And this came out. I told you all on Tumblr it was "Not Safe For Anyone." DX
> 
> From The Hips is by Cursive. MASH is an old game from my childhood. Is that even still played? Yikes. I think it stood for Mansion/Apartment/Shack/House. The gender-swapping is Trevor slipping back and forth between Trisha and Trevor personas if that wasn't evident. 
> 
> Poor Trevor deserves better from me. T_T

_I'm at my best when I'm at my worst_

_I'm at my worst when it's not rehearsed_

_I don't want to know the goddamn words_

_I don't want to have to spell it out_

_Don't want to mumble what I'm trying to say_

_I want to scream it from my foaming mouth_

_Shoot out the lights and ride away_

Blood-curdling screams paired alongside freshly decaying smells of molten flesh are the melody to the background noise that is screeching halts and quick introductions with the half-lidded gazes of eyes that linger way too long in places that they probably shouldn’t but most definitely do. And the harmony comes blazing in, to the tune of an old jet engine that’s sputtering as crankily and anxiously as its knee-jerking pilot whose eyes are trained all over the place normally because he’s used to reading his instruments, but he’s also fidgety and whiny like a girl losing her virginity on prom night because he can’t stop eye-fucking the gorgeous young piece of ass next to him who hasn’t even given him a name beyond a goddamn letter yet, and he doesn’t care. He knows he doesn’t need more than one letter anyway when he’s busy fumbling to spell things out with his tongue he’d like to do to this guy on his delicious porcelain expanse of firm yet soft belly. 

Winds howl and curse through their ears at over 20,000 feet in the air, sailing over lakes and woods where gross bodies are dumped, and the putrid sounds of retching come from the back after the hatch is closed properly, but his mind and dick are elsewhere, only thinking of how close that is to what it must be like to have his mouth wrapped around him, choking past his gag reflex, tears squeezing from those big beautiful blue eyes as he looks up at him and begs begs begs for release--

And he slides back into himself, horny, aching with need, and alone because this will end as everything else ends. He’ll never know if those lips are soft and shy or slightly rough and pliant, and all he’ll have are memories to paint the walls of his hanger with, but damn, he will do it over and over and over and over some more. 

Painfully, he’s aware that his pants are as tight as a second skin so he tries to play it cool while adjusting himself, but he catches himself being watched the same way a chickenhawk scans the ground for its next meal, and he feels a prickle of nervousness and heat rush up from his balls to the back of his neck as the guy who now smirks at him and calls himself “Michael” -- _are they really the same age? he seems so much older and wiser already_ \-- invites him out for a beer and a talk about something.

“A talk about something” sounds positively sinful the way it gushes out his mouth and falls off his tongue like he’s shot a hot load from those rosy lips. He can’t form a coherent thought when he tries to talk to Michael. All he wants to do is fuck that mouth with anything he can get a hand on; his finger, his tongue, his foot, his cock, his shoe, even his goddamn eyeball, it doesn’t really matter. 

Michael produces a number, and this is it, he tells himself frantically. He wants to tear his face right off his skull because it’s never been this way. He’s full of rage-induced thoughts and the perverse gratifying actions that follow but never one where he has to force himself out of his panic-driven stuttering messy muteness where he’s shy like this, where he’s Trisha back in the closet, running from everyone including himself.

But his heart is withering torturously at the thought of this Roman god walking away, so he does the only thing his mind knows to do to make sense of this situation--

He grabs the crudely-made 9mm from where it’s tucked into Michael’s pants and ends it as it began by unleashing a blood-curdling scream that rips his throat, sending foamy blood and drool flying everywhere, while he fires a shot wildly that takes out a streetlight: _“_ _Don’t leave me, Mikey!”_

And little Trisha prepares to be thrown and abandoned back into the closet, but there’s something in the way those eyes bore into his, that he knows these eyes won’t leave, and their fingers interlock as they run off to the beat of sirens coming in the night, laughing wildly and feeling free.

_I'm in my worst when I'm at my best_

_I'm at my best when I'm trying to look and think and talk_

_And sing and read and write like all the rest_

_We're all just trying to play our roles_

_In a play that runs ad nauseum_

_I hate this damn enlightenment_

_We were better off as animals_

Years coast by as easily and quickly as the winds that carry him when he does one of the things he’s still the best at -- flying. This is really the only place where he still feels like he can offer anything of use besides brute psychotic strength when there’s an actual use for that.

Lester is brains, numbers, careful planning, along with Michael who is also strategizing, old school charm, wit, and an ungodly aim that came off the ends of being a quarterback who should’ve been a pro by all means and never in this racket but had a dark side with an even darker temper that couldn’t be controlled. 

He has been on the end of that darker side and temper so many times; sometimes by sheer accident, but sometimes he loves the thrill of the sport, but he won’t admit it to anyone except his own shit-stained heart. He enjoys the vein that bulges on the right side of Michael’s head, how his eyes dilate with excitement and anger, the sweat that forms on his temple and the back of his neck, and he especially appreciates how lovingly Michael can choke the shit out of him in one massive hand while cradling his dick in the other as he fucks and fills him up in ways he’s never been able to feel and thinks he never will again. 

If only he could cut out his offensive heart, he could be forever fucking ecstatic having each hole plugged after the cooldown from a job well done, throw back a few brewskis with the fellas, and then go home to sleep and repeat like every red-blooded male ad nauseum. Unfortunately, he has to be born with these wicked Trisha emotions that make him want to cuddle, kiss, spill secrets, run his fingers through Michael’s hair, hiss at Amanda whenever she is within a five-mile radius, try to nurture his kids as if they are their own, and plan out their futures together like some fucking idiotic girl playing the old game of MASH except it’s now Fuck, Marry, Kill.

So he feels better being in the air, whether he’s flying or slamming up and down on Michael’s cock while they’re fucking in his marriage bed while Amanda’s out fucking Jimmy’s third-grade teacher, and no one really cares who’s doing what or maybe they all know what’s going on, but _he’s_ the only being kept out of the sick secret on purpose. Maybe they set this shit up so they can point and laugh at him later when they have their parent-teacher conference meetings.

And that humiliation gets his dick even harder, but he doesn’t know why, Jesus, _why_. 

Words babble from his lips like worship at the altar that is Michael when he hits that sweet spot of relief that is several strokes up deep inside of what Mother had once deemed his naughty place, and Christ _please_ , does it ever feel good.

It reaches up somewhere inside of him, calling on the tiniest part of Trisha that still exists in the closeted part of his heart, and arms clutch at the false god that is underneath him, pulling him to his imagined plush breasts, weeping into him how much he loves him, how much he _needs_ him, how much Michael makes him feel like he can be a better person, and how he’s never felt like he could be that before, he’s never felt like he could love himself before. 

Vaguely, the sound of a door and footsteps from somewhere registers, and he’s thrown to the floor and told to _hide goddammit_. There’s something frighteningly familiar in that action, and his mind bleeds into another time where _she’s_ not very old, doesn’t understand why everyone does this to _her_ , why everyone _she_ loves wants to hurt _her_ so very much when all _she_ wants to do is love them so much like Mama taught _her_ to do.

 _She’s_ worrying _her_ lip to the point of bleeding while sobbing when Michael comes back in laughing a bit because apparently, it’s not Amanda but Tracey who’s come running in from outside. And Michael is half-assed apologies with swoops and kisses when he guides _her_ up off the floor back to the bed, and _she_ slowing sinks back into himself, thinking he fucking hates realizing that’s all this will ever be. He hates these moments of clarity. He hates himself. He hates love. And he hates Michael with his whole heart as much as he loves him.

_We're at our best when it's from our hips_

_From our hips we don't give a shit_

_It just feels good, and that's no sin_

_It's the only way to feel alive_

_The closest thing to being born again_

_And when baby comes its "job well done"_

_Roll in the hay, or roll around the sun_

They’re fucking like it’s the end of the world or this will be the last time, and that’s the way Michael’s been for a while now, he realizes with a painful wringing of his heart. They keep coming together more as they’re growing further and further apart emotionally. Michael has never been a bastion of heart-sleeve wearing, he knows, but he feels so disconnected from him to the point that even calling themselves “brothers” or whatever is so damn forced. Michael doesn’t even seem to have his heart in the game anymore, and that scares the shit out of him. What the hell has happened? It’s like he’s looking at someone who’s a former shell of what he was. 

And he thinks this must be what it was like for his school, his family, his friends...when he’d finally given up the ghost on football and going pro. When he’d succumbed to his depression and wallowed in it like a stuffed pig in mud. It must have been goddamn sad to watch something so remarkable and beautiful just become a husk of themselves. 

Plans have never been his forte. Those are the specialty of Michael and Lester. But he hatches one on his own, figuring that if he can detach his sex drive from that horrible part of himself that keeps scaring Michael off so they can just go back to having fun like the old days then everything will go back to the way it was. 

He’s Icarus, and he needs his sun. What will he do if it keeps trying to hide under the clouds?

So he plays his role of the fuck buddy with an unquenchable lust for cock which isn’t far from the truth. He needs Michael like he needs food for sustenance. But he’s had to smoke a little ice here and there to give him a boost in energy because Michael has always had insomnia issues and is plagued by nightmares even if he’s unwilling to say it out loud to anyone, so the man only manages about four to five hours of sleep on a good day, and he’s ready to go way more often at a pace that’s both amazing and scary. 

The night before they settle in to do their latest big job at a shithole of a border town called Ludendorff, they stop a town over to get a motel for planning, resting, and expending nervous energy. Everyone has a name for it. Brad calls it “getting piss drunk and finding a chick to bang.” He and Michael call it “sharing a room and watching TV.”

They’re a tangle of limbs before they completely have their clothes off, lips are bitten to silence the words that want to come out but aren’t needed because Michael has to know how he feels by now, but it’s something that’s just an uneasiness in Mikey that can’t be helped. He knows that now. 

Clothes are off, and the countdown to thirty is begun but not even finished before Michael is plunged to the hilt in him, no preparation, but they’ve spent years preparing, he thinks sadly to himself, so he must be a gaping wound by now that throbs only for Michael, that can only be filled by a Michael-shaped cock. 

And usually, Michael is busy at this point seeking out his own need, but tonight, something is different. He grips a little tighter at the hips, looking for that special place like he used to, that delicious naughty spot he used to search out for willingly when it was just the two of them, and when it’s found, warm white light explodes behind Trevor’s vision, and he can’t stop the blessings that sprinkle forth now. 

But Michael’s right there with him, telling him he loves him, cooing in his ear like he’s never _not_ done it. And something like a nasty cold lump forms in Trevor’s heart, whispering to him that everything is wrong. When they fall asleep in each others’ arms, everything is wrong. 

When the Feds strike and the bullets don’t stop, everything is wrong. When Michael tells him to leave his side, nostalgia hits him with the force of a Mack truck, and everything is wrong. When Icarus watches the sun fall into the ground, everything is wrong.

Everything is wrong for the next decade. 

_We're at our worst when it's from our lips_

_From our lips we caused a rift_

_And the world is fallin' in_

_From Babel to barroom brawls_

_Our words have formed a death sentence_

_And I wish that we had never talked_

_Our hips said it all_

He doesn’t like this new world that is filled with people who don’t hold up to their end of bargains or want something without giving nothing in return. He doesn’t like slithering snakes. He’s seen too many in the desert and finds it funny when he realizes that one huge fat one lives not far from him in Los Santos. Not funny haha, no, not at all. Because those old bitter emotions are still there, that old love is still there, and it comes alive and is born again every time he sees Michael come into view. Sure, he’s a little pudgier around the edges, but what altar doesn’t get a little dusty and worn with age?

He’s still magnificent to behold with a gun, but he’s older and whinier, which is a feat that he didn’t think Michael could manage. He was a shell of his former existence years ago, and now, now he’s just pitiful to see. He could’ve been something glorious once, and Trevor tells him so. But it falls on deaf ears so many times. Michael doesn’t care, and Trevor’s not sure he ever did. Maybe this is all he ever really was underneath it all. 

That doesn’t appeal to the man inside of him, but there’s still a sliver of emotion residing within his heart named Trisha who still loves the man before _her_ , and _she_ doesn’t hesitate to call him up to hang out and get dolled up in _her_ best in an effort to fix him. When he pulls up and looks at _her_ as if _she’s_ lost _her_ everloving mind, _she_ smiles prettily like _her_ Mama taught _her_ and tries not to cry as he teases: “ _I thought you got help for this Trisha shit years ago. Look, I know a therapist._ ”

And _she_ just whispers if they can mess around like old times because _she_ misses him, misses his touch, and they have nothing better to do now that he’s “retired” again or whatever, and can he please stick his penis inside _her_ because she has a Michael-sized hole in her bottom that needs to be filled, and it’s been there since _she_ mourned him.

He nods dumbly, gazing at _her_ with those bright blue eyes the color of the sky, and asks if _she_ can be a _good girl_ for him.

And oh _she_ can, _she_ can do this, _she_ can pretend, _she_ remembers how to play. _She_ can worship at the altar of Mikey, and he’ll never be the wiser. 

Just as soon as _she_ starts to feel alive and come back into himself, Michael starts to grunt harder and picks up the pace while staring him in the eyes, hotly, telling him that he’ll fuck him any time he wants, but if he hasn’t gotten it through his thick skull by now that they’ll never be “together,” then he doesn’t know what to tell him. Those were the dead dreams of young kids. They are men, and there are societal rules. He has a wife, dammit. Trevor needs to grow up.

Looking into his lukewarm beer, he isn’t sure if he’s been wrong this entire time about Michael or wrong about himself. He’s stuck going back and forth between thinking he can be OK with just doing what Michael says or demanding better for himself. He’s also close to exposing Michael to Amanda, but he’s not sure how much she would actually care as she has affairs about as much as she gets her tits readjusted. So he’s just...stuck.

Sex feels good. He doesn’t want to give it up. But he’s in love with Michael; the more they fuck, the more he can’t stop himself from bubbling over like some fucking brook. He can’t tear out his heart because he’s tried. Trisha is a permanent part of him. The fact that Michael even dared to crack a joke….

He hurts. He hasn’t hurt like this in years. No one has ever hurt him like this except family. Family and Michael.

Someone to his side bangs into him carelessly, and it doesn’t take much to inspire his rage. His fingers form a vicelike grip that claws at the man’s eyes, and screams of pure panic fill his joyous ears while his heart beats thunderously. He’s aware enough that people are shouting, and someone is calling 911. He thought maybe Frank, the kid, was here with possibly Lamar at one point, and maybe someone was trying to coax him out of the bar, but he is at a point of no longer caring. 

Heights have never scared him. He’s at home in the air, whether he’s bouncing in a plane, on a cock, from a parachute, or on a bridge as he is currently doing. He looks over precariously, stares into the glistening water below, hears the sirens in the distance but doesn’t really note them. 

There’s only one god he prays to on this bridge, only one drug that can heal his tired soul. 

Just like all those years ago, he wants to scream his name, but his throat no longer works. But his tears do. 

If he’d never opened his mouth, if he’d never said he loved him...does he dare to think if he’d never even met him? Would he be this miserable? He’s only been this miserable a few times in his life, but quite a few of them revolve around this same man, and that can’t be a good thing. 

For the second time in his life, he realizes bitterly that he hates clarity as much as he hates love and Michael. 

But as he crouches to push off the ledge, a desperate and chillingly familiar voice is in the crowd of people, trying to push through: _“_ _Don’t you fuckin’ leave me, Trevor!_ ”


End file.
